The Redbreast by Jo Nesbø

two-room apartment in Torshov and wish there were someone to whom she could say, ‘Good night.’
    ‘I’d like to see a room as high up as possible.’
    Betty Andresen stared at the dripping wet shoulders of the old man’s coat. It was pouring outside. A quivering raindrop clung to the brim of his hat.
    ‘You want to see a room?’
    Betty Andresen’s smile didn’t flinch. She had been trained according to the principle, which she observed religiously, that everyone was to be treated as a guest until the opposite was proven irrefutably. But she knew equally well that what she had in front of her was an example of the genus: old-man-visiting-the-capital-who-would-like-to-see-the-view-from-the-SAS-hotel-without-paying. They were still coming here, particularly in the summer. And it wasn’t only to see the view. Once a woman had asked to see the Palace Suite on the twenty-first floor so that she could describe it to her friends and tell them that she had stayed there. She had even offered Betty fifty kroner if she would enter her name in the guest book so that she could use it as proof.
    ‘Single room or double?’ Betty asked. ‘Smoker or non-smoker?’ Most started to falter at that point.
    ‘Doesn’t make any difference,’ the old man said. ‘The most important thing is the view. I’d like to see one facing south-west.’
    ‘Yes, you’ll be able to see the whole town from there.’
    ‘Quite so. What is the best room you have?’
    ‘The best is obviously the Palace Suite, but wait a moment. Shall I check if we have a standard room available?’
    She clattered away on the keyboard and waited to see if he would take the bait. It didn’t take long.
    ‘I’d like to see the suite.’
    Of course you would , she thought. She cast her eye over the old man. Betty was not an unreasonable woman. If an old man’s greatest wish was to see the view from the SAS hotel, she wouldn’t stand in his way.
    ‘Let’s go and have a look,’ she said, flashing her most radiant smile, which was usually reserved for regular guests.
    ‘Are you visiting someone here in Oslo?’ she asked out of politeness in the lift.
    ‘No,’ the old man said. He had white bushy eyebrows like her father. Betty pressed the lift button, the doors slid to and the lift was set in motion. She never got used to it – it was like being sucked up to heaven. The doors slid open and, as always, she half expected she would come out into a new and different world, more or less like the girl in The Wizard of Oz . But it was always the same old world. They walked through the corridors with matching wallpaper and carpets and expensive art on the walls. She put the key card in the lock of the suite, then said, ‘After you,’ and held the door open for the man, who slipped by with what she interpreted as an air of expectation.
    ‘The Palace Suite measures 105 square metres,’ Betty said. ‘The suite has two bedrooms, each with their own king-size bed, and two bathrooms, each with jacuzzi and telephone.’
    She went into the room where the old man had taken up a position by the window.
    ‘The furniture was designed by Poul Henriksen, a Danish designer,’ she said, stroking her hand over the paper-thin glass top on the coffee table. ‘Perhaps you would like to see the bathrooms?’
    The old man didn’t answer. He had kept his soaking-wet hat on, and in the silence that followed Betty heard a drip land on the cherrywood parquet floor. She stood beside him. From here they could see everything that was worth seeing: the Town Hall, the National Theatre, the Palace, the Norwegian Parliament – the Storting – and Akershus Fortress. Beneath them lay the Palace Gardens, where the trees pointed up towards a leaden grey sky with black splayed witches’ fingers.
    ‘You ought to come here on a fine spring day,’ Betty said.
    The old man turned and sent her an uncomprehending look, and Betty realised what she had just said. She might as well have added: Since